Originally posted in May 2008:
Photos of the house on Robins Rd. by Author
Photos of the house on Robins Rd. by Author
I've recently read God is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens, and am nearly finished with The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. Though the books are very different, both are excellent reads, and I agree with the authors in all major details. Save one.
Both avowed atheists, Hitchens and Dawkins make a very strong case for their lack of belief. And having read both books, I'd have to say that I've reached the point where I can say, I am an atheist too--as it pertains to religion. "Well what else would atheism pertain to?" you might ask. Good question. Most people who declare themselves atheists (both authors included) dismiss religions as false, but they also decline to apply the term "supernatural" to anything outside of fiction.
And that is where they lose me. I've personally experienced things that have no rational explanation that satisfies me. And since they have nothing to do with religion, I don't really understand why atheism has anything to say about it. Scientifically, I suppose, there is a natural explanation for everything. But read my story, and see if you have an explanation.
Strange things have happened to me for as long as I can remember. Things like knowing that my mother had a headache when she was in a different room. Asking my sister a question about something random that she was just thinking of herself. Reading an unusual word in a book, and hearing it repeated on TV seconds later (this happens a lot). Mentioning an obscure celebrity, only to have them pop up in the news the next day (often dead). Or seeing my grandfather in his pajamas at the end of the hall after he died. All of these things could have an explanation. Intuition, coincidence, a trick of the light. OK, in most of these cases, I can buy that.
But there was a strange series of events that occurred between 1984 and the early nineties that nothing can adequately explain to me. It was that year that my parents' business became successful enough to finally buy a new house. I was with them the day they found the one they ultimately did buy, the house on Robins Road. Mom loved the old brick house, which we later found was built in 1835 or so. She was so excited about it, she could barely disguise her glee in front of the Realtor, much to the distress of my step father. . .
Before the purchase was final, we took a drive around the area, down to the shore of Hoover Reservoir, several miles from the house. There, we found some fishermen, and Dad, being gregarious, struck up a conversation with them. Eventually, he got around to mentioning the house, and one of the fishermen was familiar with it. "You mean that old haunted house?"
